


Certainly, Maybe

by lavendre



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Family, Gen, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendre/pseuds/lavendre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post Lohgrin] Sorey said nothing. Rose was right, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certainly, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> An odd snippet about family. I like how cobbled together this cast is. Sometime post Lohgrin, obvious spoilers.

“Do you ever think about what it would have been like to have a mother?” Rose blew on her hands slowly; they smelled like rose water, soft and warm from the tub. She’d climbed into bed, but Sorey stayed awake on the other side of the room, the length of the rug running from the dresser to the desk the partition between them. The fire was there, too. “Y’know -- to have someone who’s maternal like that. I didn’t really have a figure like that in my childhood. Sometimes I feel like I might be missing something.”  
  
“Not really. I had the whole village, and half of the seraph there are women. I can’t think of anything better than what I already have; there’s never been any reason to think twice about it.” Sorey leaned over his own lap, examining the stitches of his handiwork, the gash in the chest piece that had nearly sliced him from head to toe. “I’m sure it would be nice. Though, that’s a different quality of life.”  
  
“Yeah.” She slipped her hands along the edge of the tome he read to himself every night. He left it carelessly open wherever a lamp lingered. The binding was broken from too many readings. Bookmarks poked out at the edges, a thistle stem, a petal, a stray thread from his shirt.  
  
“Do you think Mikleo thinks about his mother?”  
  
Sorey glanced up under his lashes. He always appeared contemplative and sincere; sometimes Rose couldn’t stand to look at him for very long. “I’m sure he does. Muse is very brave.”  
  
“Think she’s still alive?” she voiced to the ceiling. That was the question she brooded on the most.  
  
“I don’t know,” Sorey said carefully. He snipped off the thread with a small pair of scissors, the ones he kept in his traveling kit, tucked next to the thread and needles, and the little boar skin satchel that held his treasures: the earrings, the glove, the bright, hand painted beads. The things he believed in.  
  
“I think she is,” Rose mumbled. “I think all these myths are true. I think we’re going to find a lot of answers in Camlann.”  
  
Sorey said nothing. She was right, of course.


End file.
